


That Which Can Eternal Lie

by Dash_O_Pepper



Category: Gilligan's Island
Genre: Cthulhu Mythos, Friendship, Gen, Occult, Posted for Archival Purposes Only
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-16
Updated: 2015-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:41:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26514631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dash_O_Pepper/pseuds/Dash_O_Pepper
Summary: The Professor's made an unsettling archaeological discovery. Will scientific logic or something best left undisturbed win out?





	1. A Scientific Conundrum

**Author's Note:**

> **NOTE :** _This story is incomplete, and has been posted to AO3 for archival purposes only._
> 
>  ** _Author's Notes :_** While not a sequel, this story follows my first Gilligan's Island fanfiction, "The Road Not Travelled". Though there are some references made to the previous story, it isn't necessary to have read that story to understand this one.  
> • The author would like to express her thanks also to bythepalmtrees for allowing her to make some references to her story, "Dreams, Dreams, Dreams".  
> • This story is currently on hiatus.

**Roy Hinkley frowned at the face in the mirror,** as he ran a comb carefully through his sandy brown hair; surprised, though not entirely displeased, to discover no additional facial wrinkle or errant strand of grey. It wasn't vanity that made him examine his image so closely. He was actually searching for, and would have been ecstatic to discover, any tell-tale signs of an age difference between the man he was five years ago, when he and the other six castaways washed ashore on this deserted island. Yet, there was nothing.

A lack of pollution, pesticides, chemicals, and food additives might have accounted for some slowing in the aging process, but not by this much. Despite the amount of sun exposure they had all experienced, none of them was excessively tanned. Even their hands, which had become accustomed to manual labour, weren't overly calloused. It was as though time had inexplicably slowed where their physicality was concerned, and it was something that had no logical explanation.

*.*.*.*.*

"Professor…?"

Blushing slightly in confusion, he looked up from the food he was pushing from one side of his plate to the other. It was apparent from the stares he was receiving from his dinner companions that they had been attempting to get his attention for some time.

"I'm sorry, Skipper." He looked at the big man seated at the head of the community table: "My mind was elsewhere."

"I'll say it was," teased the dark-haired young man seated at the Skipper's right, "it was like you were a million miles away."

The Professor sat bolt upright in his chair, as he responded, "I couldn't be a million miles away from here, could I, Gilligan?"

The first mate gulped. Ever since the incident with Doctor Hinkley, the castaways had been very careful in what they said to the Professor in fear of dredging up memories of events best left buried in the past. While Gilligan had no idea how far or near a parallel universe might be, a million miles didn't seem out of the question, and from the Professor's reaction, he worried that he might have hit a nerve.

Quickly trying to change the subject, Gilligan turned towards the Skipper: "Do you think the new lobster traps I made are working better than the old ones?"

The seaman was caught up short by his little buddy's sudden change in tangent. Spluttering for an answer, he looked at the millionaire for help.

"Oh, I'm certain they are, Gilligan," said Thurston Howell III quickly. "Now, if you could just build something to get us all off this island."

His wife squeezed his arm, afraid that her husband's last sentence might have gone too far.

The Skipper breathed a sigh of relief when the Professor seemed to relax. Whatever made him react like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming car seemed to have passed.

"I have no doubt we'll get off this island—eventually—Mr. Howell."

"You have a plan, Professor?" asked Ginger. Perhaps a bit too quickly, she worried.

"Not at the moment, but science has to work within certain parameters." His tone was level. "If it fails, then some other forces are at work."

"What kind of forces?"

The Skipper didn't wait for the Professor to answer Mary Ann's question, as he had his own theories about the islands within the area. "Supernatural ones."

The Professor smiled indulgently. While he disagreed vehemently with the Skipper, his time with Hinkley had given him a much higher threshold in accepting the burly seaman's beliefs: "I wouldn't call them supernatural, Skipper. Just things that science hasn't discovered—yet. In the same way a television set would have been considered sorcery during Henry VIII's reign."

"Call it what you like, Professor, but you haven't seen some of the things I've seen over the years in the South Pacific."

Afraid that the Skipper was treading on dangerous ground, Mary Ann piped up: "Is there anything I can help you with, Professor?"

Lately, he always had a smile for her. Especially since he realised that she was one of the hardest workers in maintaining their little community: Mary Ann Summers was always willing to lend a hand in whatever way she could. He was surprised it had taken him five years to figure out something that Gilligan, the Skipper, Mr. Howell—and even Hinkley—already understood.

He nodded in response to her question. "There are some things I'd like to discuss tomorrow regarding how the crops are presently doing."

"Oh, I see." Her smile didn't waver, as she stood to begin clearing away the dishes, but he had a feeling it wasn't quite the response she was hoping to hear from him.

"Professor, if you need my help, too, you just have to ask." If there were any ill feelings between Ginger and her roommate, the actress did her best to hide them.

"I'll let you know," he replied, as he excused himself and returned to his hut.

*.*.*.*.*

"The crops seem to be doing reasonably well this season." He stood, wiping the dirt from his hands and brushing the loose sand from his trousers.

"Well, since we've started rotating the soil and what we grow on it, there has been a change in the speed and quantity of the harvest." She stood up

He noted the merest smudge of dirt on her nose; pointed and smiled, as she tried wiping it away, only making it worse.

"Allow me." He held her chin in his hands and pulled out his handkerchief to wipe it away.

"Is it off?" she asked.

He nodded, as he took the linen with her scent on it and inhaled deeply before putting it in his pocket.

While the Professor was always a gentleman to both her and Ginger, his gallantry seemed somewhat uncharacteristic for him. Mary Ann had noted some changes in his personality since his ordeal with Doctor Hinkley, and asked worriedly, "Professor, is there something wrong? Something you're not telling us?"

He shrugged. "I don't know if I could explain it clearly enough for you to understand."

She stopped him. "All right, I know I don't have the book smarts you do, but I'm not completely out to sea, either."

He didn't expect his comment to cause her to be defensive. Too many times he would simply forget himself and talk over the heads of his compatriots without realising it.

"It's me; not you," he apologised. "I've been attempting to decipher those ancient texts I recently discovered, and they've led to more questions than I presently have answers."

"Are they that mysterious?" She was always intrigued by his discoveries.

"Well, the writing is not hieroglyphs, like the other pieces we've found. It bears more similarities to some of the earliest root languages we know to exist: Sumerian, Finnish and Basque; yet its structure is unique in itself."

Mary Ann shuddered. She recalled what some of the hieroglyphic translations the Professor discovered had revealed, and those were none too pleasant: ritual sacrifice, tortures, and other horrific means of death. "Are they related to the hieroglyphs?"

He shook his head. "That's what's been puzzling me: they don't seem to be. It's as though two distinct—and vastly different civilisations—may have existed on this island at various periods in history."

"And both just ceased to exist?" She hugged herself: that outcome didn't bode well for their own little community.

"I don't think so. From what I can gather, the people who made the hieroglyphs likely dispersed to other islands, and those remaining may have, unfortunately, eradicated their civilisation via ritual sacrifice."

She thought of the countless lives lost to gods whose hunger might never have been assuaged. "And the other civilisation?"

"I don't know—and without the ability to perform Carbon14 tests I may never know—but they seem to have been a much older and more highly developed people."

"That sounds like the reverse of everything I was taught. Don't civilisations usually go from primitive to advanced, and not the other way around?"

He nodded. "That's what has me stumped. It just doesn't make sense from a scientific perspective."

"I'm sure you'll figure it out." She smiled. "If there's one thing you enjoy, it's a scientific mystery."


	2. A Mystery Inside an Enigma

**In his hut, the Professor spent the afternoon poring over his most recent archaeological discovery.** Mary Ann was right: he did enjoy solving scientific mysteries, and their island home always seemed to provide more than enough to keep him occupied.

Unlike his previous discovery of the hieroglyphs, this writing was not carved into stone or painted on the walls of the many caves throughout the island. Instead, it was written on some type of papyrus—a plant not native to the region.

Admittedly, having found these papyri sealed inside a clay jar had probably helped preserve them, but they still should have reacted to exposure to air when he opened the container. Yet, they hadn't. While they certainly weren't in pristine condition, they definitely didn't show the signs of decay that should have been expected. So, an unknown chemical preservative was the most likely cause for their still existing in a readable form; something he would need to investigate further.

His major obstacle was that while the writing on the was legible, he had no Rosetta Stone with which to assist in their translation. While there were hints of both some early South Pacific and South American writings, none seemed to correlate with any known root language with which he was familiar. Yet, it was clear the language possessed a structure and syntax. And the fact that it was written in a very precise—almost mechanical—script, and preserved so well, inferred that they must have been important documents that were meant to remain uncorrupted by the passage of time.

 _Time._ There was that word again, creeping into his thoughts: documents that were mysteriously preserved for history, and he and his fellow castaways, seemingly untouched by its passage. It was a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma, and he wondered if the two were somehow related. His studies of the island itself had revealed that it seemingly disappeared, like a modern day _Brigadoon,_ but there was a perfectly rational and logical explanation for that: inverse thermal layers and ocean-swept currents, which in turn were affected by light refraction, causing the island to appear to disappear. While this inverse mirage effect had often hampered their attempts at rescue on the rare occasions when the US Navy were performing manoeuvres in their vicinity, it had also kept away all but the bravest of headhunters that still roamed these waters. But could it, like the legendary Scottish village, shift out of four-dimensional space, causing time's affects to slow?

His thoughts on his latest scientific quest were suddenly interrupted by a gentle knock at his door.

"Come in," he called, his focus still fixated on one of the documents he'd been attempting to decipher.

"Professor, aren't you going to join us for dinner?" purred a sultry voice from behind him.

He quickly looked up from his work, surprised at how long he'd been enthralled by this puzzle, and turned to face his guest. "I'm sorry, Ginger, but—"

She smiled at him. "When you get involved with a project…"

He returned her smile. "Am I that predictable?"

Ginger stifled a giggle. "Professor, we could set our watches by you."

"All right. All right. I know when I've been defeated." The Professor held up his hands in his defence. "Just let me put these papyri back into storage, and I'll be right out to join you all."

*.*.*.*.*

"That must be some project you're working on, huh, Professor?" asked Gilligan, as he spooned a helping of crab meat onto his plate.

The Professor was pleased by the first mate's interest, and couldn't wait to share what he'd discovered concerning those artefacts. "It is Gilligan." So absorbed was he in wanting to discuss his recent archaeological discovery that he passed the bowl of salad to Mr. Howell, absent-mindedly forgetting to serve himself. "This may be something on par with the discovery of the Rosetta Stone or the Dead Sea Scrolls."

 _That would make it priceless,_ thought the millionaire, his eyes lighting-up with visions of a new, unchartered market in antiquities. "I can see it now, by George, Sotheby's holding an auction on the many things you've discovered on this island. With my expertise, we—uh—you could make a fortune."

"You can't put a price on something like this, Mr. Howell." He was taken aback.

"Oh, Thurston has always been able to put a price on _anything,_ " said Mrs. Howell in support of her husband.

 _Of that I have no doubt,_ thought the Professor. "This is too unique a piece of history. This may change our previous held conceptions of these islands."

"Then again, Professor, it could simply be a cookbook." The Skipper took a swig of papaya juice. "There's a lot of mysteries surrounding these islands that are best left undisturbed."

"Science would never have progressed to land a man on the Moon, if we took that attitude, Skipper."

The big man wasn't going to let the matter drop: "Look at how Pele protects Hawai'i: any haole returning to the mainland with her soil risks her wrath."

Sensing that the conversation was taking a decided turn to the old argument of science versus superstition between the scholar and the seaman, Mary Ann looked at Ginger for support, as she steered the conversation in another direction: "What do you think of the sauce on the crab meat?"

Ginger picked up on her roommate's cue: "We tried a new recipe today, and so far we haven't heard any applause from any of you." She used her acting skills to mock-pout her disappointment with the meal's reception.

"Mary Ann, you've outdone yourself: the sauce was simply divine," Mrs. Howell chirped up, wanting to be of assistance to her female companions.

"That's funny," said Gilligan, "it didn't taste like—" A sharp kick to his shin interrupted what he was going to say, and he stifled a yelp.

"It didn't taste like what, Gilligan?" mumbled the Skipper.

"Oh, nothing," the first mate replied, glaring at the two young women seated across the communal table, wondering which one had kicked him.

"Everything was delicious, ladies," said the Professor, graciously. He rose to return to his hut, and his scientific experiments.

"Professor, you're not going to stay for dessert?" asked Ginger.

"I made your favourite," said Mary Ann.

He shook his head, the tiki torches reflecting a glow in his countenance that his six friends hadn't seen since before the incident with Doctor Hinkley. "Science beckons, and besides, I think I've theorised a new way to decipher that text.

"Will you save me a piece, though?" he asked. With a twinkle in his eye, he looked at the always ravenous first mate. "A man does need to keep up his strength."

His smile was infectious, and Mary Ann giggled. "I'll make sure of it."

*.*.*.*.*

After the Professor was in his hut, and the other six castaways saw the waxy yellow flicker from the candle he lit to continue his research, Ginger turned on the Skipper. "How could you?" she whispered angrily. "This is the most enthused in anything we've seen him in nearly a month."

Like a fish out of water, the Skipper's mouth moved to reply, but he was at a loss for words.

"Skipper," began Mary Ann, "that really wasn't like you at all."

"Girls," he started, "I didn't mean any harm by what I said. But you do remember when he was turned into a zombie by that witchdoctor?"

"How could we forget?" replied Ginger, who had attempted to do a ritual dance to awaken him from his trance.

"The Professor's the smartest man I've ever known. But when it comes to the supernatural, he'll always try to justify anything with a scientific explanation. And some things just can't be explained with logic."

"Captain, do you really believe that what he discovered is something akin to the dark arts, as it were?"

"I don't know the answer to that, Mr. Howell, but he found those clay jars buried at the base of the mountain where we know some of the island's natives lived—and we all know what became of them." The Skipper shuddered. "These islands hold a great many secrets that are best left buried."


	3. What Magic Exists in the Dark of Night

**The Professor didn't waste any time in returning to his research.** Though he did feel a bit guilty over his debate with the Skipper: the man just couldn't be pried away from the hold that superstition held over him, and it wasn't his place to dissuade anyone from their beliefs. Besides, seamen were known for their tall tales; and while most of those stories were simply anecdotal embellishments passed down from the earliest sailors, when stripped down to their bare essentials, there were kernels of truth to be found: such as the actual existence of the legendary city of Troy.

He'd definitely apologise to the Skipper in the morning, and continue to agree to disagree with the man's devotion to myth and legend.

Handling one of the papyrus as gingerly as he could, he once more examined what he believed was the primary piece in the works he found. This time rather than attempting to decipher its language, the Professor felt that re-examining it as a unit might best lead him to a solution to the puzzle.

*.*.*.*.*

"Is he still at it?" asked Mary Ann of her roommate, as she tied her hair into ponytails to get ready for bed.

Ginger stifled a yawn. "Yes. I don't think he even noticed me setting the dessert plate down for him. At the rate he's going, I think he'll be up all night."

"I'm glad," said Mary Ann thoughtfully. "Archaeology has always been one of his major interests, and it's good that's he re-found his passion in something again."

The movie star nodded. "After what happened between him and Doctor Hinkley, it's like the old Professor is finally returning."

"I just wish the Skipper wouldn't be so superstitious sometimes."

Ginger slipped out of her evening dress, and wrapped herself in her blanket, as she, too, got ready for a relaxing night's sleep. "Well, I guess you can't blame him. Even the Professor was hard-pressed to scientifically explain being turned into a zombie."

The petite brunette shivered slightly as she sat on her bed. "I know he said he wasn't. But do you really think he was?"

"I don't know about that, but he was definitely in a trance of some kind. And since none of us knew there was a witchdoctor on the island, a—what did he call it again?" she asked trying to remember how the Professor had explained it.

"A curare-based neurotoxin," said Mary Ann, recalling how the Professor theorised an explanation for his trance-like state over two years ago.

"Well, he wasn't likely to have come into contact with one; otherwise we'd have known about that witchdoctor a lot sooner."

Mary Ann lay down and hugged her pillow. "Ginger, do you believe in magic?"

"I did break into show business with a phony sheik…"

"Ali ben Kasey, wasn't it?"

The titian-haired beauty blew out the candle, and crawled into her own bed. "Uh-huh. But that was stage magic, are you talking about real magic?"

Mary Ann nodded her head, unconsciously forgetting for the moment that in the dark Ginger wouldn't have seen her response. "Real magic."

Ginger thought hard about the question. Mary Ann's faith was strong: she was the one who had formed the communal Sunday worship service that even the Professor sometimes partook in. "If it does exist," she tried to phrase her answer as though she were re-assuring someone she'd come to look upon as a younger sister, "I think there's someone out there who's watching over and protecting us from such things."

The younger woman's breathing had relaxed, perhaps glad that someone else shared in her belief of a much more beneficent guiding hand.

"G'night, Ginger," she mumbled.

"Good night, Mary Ann."

*.*.*.*.*

"Thurston, come to bed, dear," said Mrs. Howell, as she watched her husband pace up and down the floor of their hut.

"I've got to make the Professor see reason, Lovey," he replied, squeezing his teddy bear tightly. "Those parchments—"

"Papyrus, dear," corrected his wife.

"Those papyruses—"

"Papyri," said Lovey helpfully.

"Yes, those papyri are invaluable. There's so much money to be made in antiquities. And these may be some of the rarest ever found."

"But you know the Professor, darling. Where science is concerned, he's just like Gilligan: money doesn't interest him."

"Oh, what you said, Lovey." He quietly whispered to Teddy and patted the bear on the head, "Don't you believe that.

"No, but research does. If I could just make him see that by selling those antiquities to, say, Harvard, it would not only allow him the opportunity to advance his studies, but turn a profit, with a healthy finder's fee for me, of course…"

"I'm sure it would," she replied sleepily, snuggling into her pillow. "But in the morning, dear."

"Yes," smiled Mr. Howell. He got into bed, and turned the wick in the oil lamp down. "The Professor's a man of reason. He'll see the logic of it all."

He smiled to himself, before closing his eyes. "By Jove, Thurston, you've done it again."

*.*.*.*.*

The Skipper looked out the window of the hut he shared with his first mate. "He's certainly burning the midnight oil."

"You know the Professor," said Gilligan, climbing into his hammock. "When he thinks he's on to something, he won't let it go."

"I wish he would," said the Skipper, turning his back to the window to look at his little buddy, "especially as it's getting close to midnight."

Gilligan propped himself on his elbow and looked at the big man. "Skipper, even I don't believe in the witching hour."

"Be thankful for that, little buddy." The seaman kept knotting his hands together worriedly; fear was clearly etched in the expression on his face.

"You really think he found something bad, don't you?"

"I don't know," his voice cracked slightly. "But ever since I saw those jars and that writing, something's been setting me on edge."

"That's only because of where he found them," replied Gilligan. "I've explored this island pretty well, and I don't like the feeling I get around that mountain either. It _is_ creepy."

"So, you've felt it, too?"

"Not in the way I think you mean it," he said. "We went to Gettysburg on a class trip once, and me, Skinny Mulligan and Fatso Flannigan all swore that we could feel the soldiers looking at us and watching us. But there was nothing there. No ghosts. No goblins. No demons. Just this feeling of sadness everywhere we looked."

"That's different, Gilligan."

"How so?" asked the first mate with renewed interest.

"You were dealing with the souls of real-life people—"

"But even the headhunters and witchdoctors were real-life people with real souls, too," interrupted Gilligan.

"It's not them," answered the sailor, "it's the things they prayed to."

The first mate was shocked by his Skipper's statement: "That's like saying you don't think Buddhists or Hindus will go to Heaven."

"That's not what I meant, Gilligan." The big man tried to explain himself, "Sail these waters long enough, and you'll hear all about inhuman and diabolical things that were once prayed to. Things that would give someone like that witchdoctor the power over another human being."

"Skipper, you're scaring me," said Gilligan. "Besides, those natives on this island are long gone; the Professor said they all died out."

"They may have died out, but did the evil they performed die out with them? You said so yourself that that mountain feels _creepy_."

 _Not half as creepy as some of the things you've been saying,_ thought Gilligan. "Yeah, but that's just the way it feels to me when I go near it. The Professor doesn't feel anything at all."

"Even if the Professor felt it, he'd probably chalk it up to indigestion or something."

"Why'd you have to bring this up now, Skipper? I'll probably have nightmares all night."

"I'm sorry, little buddy. I'm just worried about the Professor, I guess."

"He'll be fine, Skipper." He smiled suddenly: "Hey, I just realised something."

"What?" asked the big man as he blew out the candle and got into his hammock.

"It's usually you who's reassuring me that everything will be all right."

The Skipper harrumphed. "Good night, Gilligan."

"Good night, Skipper."

"Oh, and Gilligan…"

"Yes, Skipper?"

"Pleasant dreams." The big man smiled to himself.


	4. Dreams That Whisper in the Dead of Night

**"Paging Roy Hinkley. Paging Professor Roy Hinkley,"** came the sound of an insistent and nasally voiced woman through an intercom system.

Looking up dazed and confused from the tabletop he was slumped over— _I must have dozed off while working on those texts—_ the Professor groggily took in his surroundings: it was a laboratory of some sort. A Bunsen burner was glowing, while a bilious-green, viscous liquid bubbled inside an Erlenmeyer flask. There were scattered mathematical notations in an indecipherable script that had been written on a chalkboard; surprised, he recognised the handwriting as his own. There was an overhead fluorescent light that was slightly flickering. The room was windowless, and he could hear the rhythmic hum coming from the air conditioning system.

"Ah, there you are young man."

He didn't see a door open, but standing before him was a wizened old man with dishevelled grey hair and a long, unkempt grey beard. His clothes, greyish trousers and shirt, were tattered and threadbare; it was clear from the man's appearance that he must have seen far better days. There was something disconcertingly familiar about him, but the Professor pushed that thought aside to ask, "Where are we?"

"Now, that's a foolish question from someone supposed to be as smart as you," the voice cracked almost into a cackle. "We're right where we're supposed to be; well, at least you are."

"No, you don't understand…I was on a deserted island with six other people."

"That doesn't sound too deserted to me." The old man's snaggled teeth revealed a wolf-like grin, as though he was enjoying his own private joke.

"We've been marooned there for over five years."

"Five years? Why not fifteen? Or fifty? Don't you go believing everything you see and hear, sonny."

"But this place? It's not part of the island. Where are we?" he demanded.

"I told ya already, we're where we're supposed to be." The man's tone expressed his exasperation with the scholar.

"And that's where?" He was becoming aggravated by this strange old man, who gave the impression of being an escapee from the Mad Hatter's tea party.

"Well, where does it look like to you?"

"Some type of laboratory, but that can't be."

"And why the devil not? It's as good a place as any to be."

"But it can't be real." He slammed his fist down on the lab table that a few minutes before he'd been dozing on; his hand actually throbbed in pain. The Professor touched the objects nearest to him as well, and felt the heat emanating from the Bunsen burner's flame. "This is all solid…real."

"Reality is a relative term," the man sniggered at the Professor's confusion.

"Am I dreaming?" he finally asked.

"Now you're thinking outside the box instead of in the frying pan."

The Professor started with the mixed metaphor that the old man used. "This is a dream, isn't it?" His voice was awestruck. "I've heard about lucid dreaming before, but I've never experienced one."

"Lucid dreams. Lucid dreams. What does it matter? You're where you're supposed to be…and when, and that's all that's important."

"It's remarkable," he said, basking in this new experience. He'd never seen colours so vivid or felt a reality as tactile as the one he was in at this moment. "And I can wake up at any time I wish?"

"Well, that depends, sonny. They're waiting for you, you know."

"Who's waiting for me?"

"Who'd ya think?" The old man sounded irritated. "Questions. Questions. Always questions with you: that's how you get into trouble. You don't want to be askin' a lot of foolish questions. You want answers, don't you? That's what you always want; at least you used to."

"Of course," he stammered, somewhat embarrassed.

"Then, you just follow me, and I'll take you where you can get some."

*.*.*.*.*

Mary Ann awoke with a thump: she'd been dreaming about flying through the sky and around the island, taking in its breathtaking beauty, when suddenly she felt herself plummeting to Earth. The impact of her fantasy fall actually shook her bed.

Opening her eyes, she expected to see the cavernous darkness that the hut always fell into when the last light of the evening was extinguished. Instead, she could see everything illuminated, basked in some type of phosphorescent radiance.

"Ginger!" she shouted excitedly at her roommate. "Ginger, wake up. You've got to see this."

The movie star stirred slightly, but didn't awaken.

 _Oh, you could sleep through anything,_ she thought. She got out of bed to wake her friend and was startled that when she reached out her hand to shake her, it passed right through her.

It occurred to her that under normal circumstances, she'd have screamed in both shock and fear, but at the moment, she felt neither.

 _I'm still dreaming,_ she thought matter-of-factly, surprised that she could be so rational. This wasn't like any dream that she could recall having, either here on the island or back home in Kansas. Those were usually strangely disjointed stories, like her dream after eating the mushrooms, or totally based in the mundane reality of life on a tropical island or the drudgery of farm life back home.

While the luminescence of her surroundings never varied, she wondered what to do next. Her dreams usually came in waves, where one story flowed into another and then randomly switched tangents to become something completely different. But this was nothing like that. If she hadn't been standing in her hut with this strange incandescence all about her, everything otherwise appeared normal.

She recalled her conversation with Ginger before bed, wondering about the existence of "real magic". If this wasn't some kind of magical mystery tour, then she didn't know what would count as one. She remembered hearing once that dreams created their own reality; yet, for all its colourful spectacle, this was a pretty boring one, and she wondered if it was a reflection of how she thought of herself?

As scared as she had been during the dream caused by the mushrooms, at least she'd been a participant; right now, she didn't feel a part of anything.

 _I could go lay down again,_ she thought, but she had to admit that despite feeling like an actor on an empty stage, she was enthralled by the brilliance about her. _If I were awake and this was happening to me, where would I go?_ In less than the blink of an eye, she was in the Professor's hut.

*.*.*.*.*

Gilligan tossed and turned, as he tried to drown out the Skipper's unusually loud snoring and get some sleep. The young man felt exhausted; the seaman's tall tales of diabolical, unseen things had done what he'd expected: given him nightmares.

 _This isn't fair,_ he thought. He'd have twice the work to do tomorrow: his normal chores, plus trying to stay awake long enough to do them.

Staying in the hut tonight, just wasn't an option, though. He'd slept outdoors before; he could do it again. He'd notched out that log by the supply hut so that his lean frame could fit comfortably against it; so, it wasn't that bad. It wouldn't be like he'd be sleeping alone and away from camp in one of those caves he'd made into a secret hideout—well, not so secret anymore, since his friends knew which ones he liked best.

He quietly got out of his hammock, desperate not to disturb the Skipper, and was surprised by his own cat-like movements. Reaching for his pillow and blanket on the hammock, he was bewildered as to why he couldn't feel them. _They've got to be here,_ he thought, as he groped for them, and then he noticed he couldn't feel the strands of sisal from his hammock, either.

"What gives?" he said aloud; then quickly clamped his hand over his mouth, afraid of having woken the big man. But the Skipper's snoring remained incessant.

 _This is crazy,_ he thought. Whether or not the Skipper liked it, he was going to light the candle on the table, and find out just where his pillow, blanket, and hammock had disappeared to. He grasped about in the pitch darkness of the hut, wondering why he hadn't bumped into the hammock's support beam, or even the chair and table; it was like someone had removed everything from his path.

He could see some ambient light coming from the night sky through the window of the hut, and decided that right now, he'd feel much better outside than in.

Before he could get his legs moving towards the door, he was already outside the hut, peering up at the stars.

 _I hope I'm dreaming,_ he thought, _because that shouldn't have happened._

Looking around at what he could see in his immediate vicinity, everything seemed normal enough. Though shrouded in shadow, the communal table was right where it always was; the huts were all still there; there was even a light still flickering through the Professor's window. Shaking his head, he thought, _He's still at it._

Gilligan reached to pull out the chair at the head of the communal table, and gulped in disbelief as he felt his hand pass like a gust of wind through it. "I-I must be dreaming!" This time he said it aloud, not caring who he might awaken. But no voice answered his shout. It was then that he noticed he didn't hear any of the nighttime background noises he'd grown so accustomed to. "This really _is_ the dead of night," he said to no one in particular.

He felt only a bit scared, but it was a different kind of fear than he was familiar with: his palms weren't sweaty nor were his knees knocking together; and he didn't have a sudden urge to bolt from the safety of the compound. If this were a nightmare, it was different from the ones he'd had earlier in the evening thanks to the Skipper's tall tales.

 _Now, what do I do?_ he thought. _Just stand here and wait for the bogeyman?_ He didn't relish that idea, and tried to think of something else, not wanting his mind to conjure up anything like in those dreams he had earlier. _The Professor's still awake_ —and before he could finish the thought, he was in the Professor's hut.

*.*.*.*.*

"Boy, is this one crazy dream," he said, looking around the scientist's hut to see the Professor asleep over his work.

"Gilligan?" squeaked a voice from behind him.

"Mary Ann," he said, relieved to see one friendly face after his earlier nightmares. "You're in this kooky dream, too?"

"I'm not sure it _is_ a dream, Gilligan." She was suddenly self-conscious of being in her nightshirt and tugged it lower down her legs.

The first mate laughed, overjoyed that things were finally making some weird kind of sense, like most dreams do. "Of course, it's a dream. Just a really vivid one. See, I'll show you." He reached out to pinch her arm, expecting his own hand to pass through her like it had with everything else since this latest dream started.

"Ow!" she shouted in surprise. "That hurt."

"Gosh, I'm sorry, Mary Ann. But I wasn't expecting you to be solid. Nothing else in this wacky dream is."

"You're dreaming that, too?" she asked nervously. "We can't both be having the same dream, can we?"

The first mate shook his head. "Then who's dreaming who?"

"What do you mean?"

"Am I you dreaming about me and you, or are you me dreaming about you and me?" He tried to wrap his brain around the question, and merely wound up with a perplexed expression on his face. "Or something like that."

"You pinched me, and I didn't wake up," she said.

"Then, what are you doing in my dream?"

She reached out her hand to pinch his arm. "One good turn."

"Hey, that's not fair. You've got long nails." He rubbed his arm.

"You didn't wake up, either."

He could hear the frustration in her voice. "That sure as heck hurt, though."

"I'm sorry, Gilligan, but I've been trying to wake myself up for what feels like hours. I thought the Professor could help, if he were dreaming, too, but he's sound asleep."

"Maybe, if we pinch ourselves, then one of us might wake up, and—"

"I tried that already," she replied.

"You don't think we're ghosts, do you?" he asked anxiously.

She shook her head. "No. We're both solid—at least to each other. Besides, I thought you didn't believe in ghosts."

He looked at her sheepishly. "I lied."

"Do you think we should try to go back to sleep? That is, if we're not already there."

"I'm not really sleepy anymore," said Gilligan. "At least, I don't think I am."

"We could just wait for the sun to come up; it can't be too much longer before dawn." She hugged herself.

"No, but…" his voice trailed off.

"But what?"

"Time works differently in dreams. Sometimes it moves really quickly, and then other times, like in nightmares, it seems to take forever."

"And this definitely counts as a nightmare."

"That's the thing. This doesn't feel like a regular dream _or_ nightmare. It just feels like it is."

Mary Ann put her hands on her hips. "Like it is _what_?"

Gilligan tried to explain: "Like just being. You know like when you don't have to think about where you are or what you're doing because you're just doing it."

"But we're not doing anything—"

"Exactly!" he interrupted her.

To Mary Ann, it felt like Gilligan was going around in circles, but then again, dream logic didn't have to make sense; so, maybe he was on the right track, and she was only dreaming that Gilligan was here explaining all this to her.

A golden radiance began to creep through the Professor's window, as dawn seemed to be slowly breaking.

"Maybe you just have to think of morning, and it happens?" asked Gilligan, remembering how just thinking of being outside his hut, or of wanting to see the Professor took him there.

"I think I'd rather wake up in my own bed," said Mary Ann, half-expecting to find herself back in the hut she shared with Ginger.

"Me, too." Gilligan blushed slightly, realising how what he said could be interpreted. "I mean in my own bed, too." He stumbled over the words.

The petite brunette gave a slight smile at the first mate's embarrassment. "It's okay. I knew what you meant," she reassured him.

"I guess this time, we have to move under our own power?"

"It sure looks that way. Now that I know this is all a dream, I think I liked the other way better. It made me feel magical…Gilligan the Great!" He theatrically bowed to his audience of one.

"I wonder if we'll remember any of this when we wake up," Mary Ann mused.

"I remember most of my weird dreams, and this one definitely counts as _weird_. So, if you don't remember, just ask me and I'll tell you all about it."

Mary Ann was going to ask him how she'd ask a question about something she didn't remember, but then thought better of it. She didn't think she could handle another confusing, dream-inspired explanation.

They both headed for the door of the Professor's hut, each taking a deep breath in anticipation of passing like wraiths through the doorway. For both the feeling was different from before: it was like gliding through a wall of Jell-o.

"That was certainly strange." She'd been watching Gilligan, and not looking straight ahead of her. The first mate's jaw had dropped, and his eyes were as round as saucers.

"I think we took a wrong turn somewhere."

"What do you…" her voice trailed off, as she saw what had Gilligan agog.

Where their island compound should have been stood a massive wrought-iron gate, embellished with sigils and precious stones. The gate connected to a gleaming marbled wall, etched with strange figures and writings. Behind the gate they could just make out the gleaming structure of a city of emerald, with towers that reached at least as tall as the Empire State Building. There was a road paved of golden bricks, passing through what should have been their little community, leading up to the gate and beyond.

The farm girl instinctively reached for the first mate's hand, as she, too, was swept up in the majesty of what stood before her.

"Mary Ann, I don't think that's Oz."


	5. Realms of the Mind

**The Professor was reluctant to follow the old man.** If this was indeed a lucid dream, as he suspected, he preferred maintaining control for as long as possible. While he'd not studied the science behind lucid dreaming, he had read about it: it had been theorised that men like Stevenson, Edison and Einstein had all used lucid dreaming as a way of problem solving—the conscious, subconscious, superconscious, ego and id, all working together as one. It was the culmination of what a mind devoid of distractions could accomplish. And there was still much he wanted to do as far as deciphering those texts. If Jungian theory was correct, then the collective unconscious might hold the key to solving that riddle.

Sensing the Professor's reservations, the old man impressed upon the scholar the urgency of the situation: "If you're dreaming like you think you are, then time is of the essence. If you want answers, that is." He cackled for effect.

"But dreams create their own timeline," he replied, recalling the many dreams he'd had over the years and how each seemed to span anywhere from a few seconds to several years.

"Not this time, sonny." The old man did nothing to hide his exasperation. "When you reach your destination, then you'll have all the time in the universe. Right now, you're in what's known as the hypnagogic state—between waking and dreaming. Snap your fingers, and you could awaken at this very moment…"

Something about the way this man kept wanting him to follow bothered the Professor, and he lifted his right hand to snap his fingers. _Better to wake up no matter how interesting this dream is than to continue to listen to this inanity._

The old man reached out his claw-like hand, and with a vice-like grip wrapped it around the Professor's wrist. The strength of the man belied his age, and he knew exactly what muscles and nerves to squeeze to keep the scholar's hand immobilized.

"Can't have you doing that, can we, my boy." He shook his head and smiled triumphantly.

The Professor struggled to wrench his hand free, while simultaneously snapping the fingers of his left hand in an attempt to awaken, but nothing happened.

"I said you could," laughed the man. "Not that you _would_." The old man released his grip.

"What do you want with me?" asked the Professor, as he rubbed his bruised wrist.

"You're about the slowest genius I've ever met." The man shook his head in disgust: "I told you before…nothing. Just come with me, and all will be explained."

*.*.*.*.*

"Gilligan, let's go back," said Mary Ann, still staring in awe at the city that stood before them.

The first mate nodded his head in agreement, but when they turned around to re-enter the Professor's hut, both were stunned to find that it was no longer there, but instead was a field of some tropical flower they didn't recognise. "Maybe we can still go back the way we came." His voice was barely above a whisper. "We haven't gone far. The Professor's hut should still be where it always was."

Each squeezed the other's hand tighter, as they attempted their return trip. But this time, there was no strange sensation of pushing through some type of barrier.

"Are you wishing, Mary Ann?" Gilligan asked, his eyes squeezed closed as they walked forward.

"As hard as I can."

"I don't think it's working." He opened one eye to check his bearings, unsurprised to find that they weren't back where they started.

"This is where the Professor's hut _should be_." The petite brunette's voice cracked slightly.

Gilligan shook his head, and released Mary Ann's hand. "We must still be dreaming."

"Do you _really_ think that?"

He shook his head. "No," he gulped. "I was hoping you did, though."

She could tell that he was trying to be brave for her, and was grateful for it. "Maybe someone in that city could help us?"

 _Sometimes,_ thought Gilligan, _Mary Ann is as logical as the Professor._

"It's still early." He peered at the position of the sun. "Do you suppose anyone's up yet?"

"In a city that size, I'm sure there must be someone around."

He nodded in agreement. It wasn't like they had another option; they couldn't stand there all day doing nothing. If they'd somehow dreamed themselves into this place, then the city represented their best chance of finding home again. Gilligan remembered what he said earlier about this not being Oz; maybe he was wrong, and the best thing to do was to find someone like Glinda to send them back. He didn't relish the thought of running into a Wicked Witch if they stayed outside of it.

*.*.*.*.*

The old man left the Professor with little choice: follow him or stay forever stranded in a dream-inspired laboratory.

They passed through a labyrinth of corridors that even with his eidetic memory, the Professor wasn't certain that he could retrace their path. What was worse, was that the further they travelled, the less the laws of physics seemed to apply. Stairs wound their way in giant Möbius strips; yet always they arrived at their next destination. Shapes and angles defied the rules of geometry; at least, any with which he was familiar. Doors seemingly opened into the floor, but the passages behind them led sideways. There appeared to be no rhyme or reason to this place, but the man seemed to know his way implicitly.

"Puzzles you, don't it?"

The Professor nodded his reply, as he tried to make rational sense of what he was seeing.

"All will be explained to you, soon enough," said the man. "Too soon, if you ask me," he whispered.

"What?" asked the scholar, wondering if he heard what he thought he had.

"Never you mind, young man. Just never you mind."

*.*.*.*.*

Mary Ann and Gilligan approached the gates of the city, surprised that there wasn't anyone on sentry duty to watch such a magnificent place.

 _Even all of Mr. Howell's wealth couldn't afford something like this,_ thought Gilligan.

They both looked up at the wrought-iron gate, attempting to decipher its sigils, which were outlined in precious stones and gems.

"Well, they don't _look_ menacing," said Mary Ann. "I'm no Professor, but they look like they're friendly people." She ran her hands over the intricate designs; the patterns felt warm to her touch, and not simply emitting heat from the sun's rays.

Gilligan examined them closely, as well, trying to see if there were any signs that whoever built this weren't the former inhabitants of the island: the headhunters.

"Do you think we should call out, or just barge in?"

Mary Ann bit her lower lip. "I know I don't like unexpected company," she replied. "But what choice do we have?"

Gilligan nodded, and pushed on the gates, surprised by how easily and silently they glided open.

"Hullo," he whispered, then getting his voice back, called out, "Anyone there?"

Mary Ann added, "We don't mean any harm. We're lost, and just trying to get home."

*.*.*.*.*

"How long is this journey of yours supposed to take?" asked the Professor, as they passed through another geometric maze

"As long as it takes, of course," snapped the man, muttering under his breath, "You're supposed to be the logical one."

"Logic has its place in reality. But since this is nothing but a chimera from which I'm not yet able to awaken, the concept has no relevance here."

The old man smiled again, that same hungry, wolf-like smile he had when they first met. "Good. Good. You're getting where you're supposed to be mentally and physically. They're waiting for you, you know. All the better they meet you like this."

"You keep speaking of these people waiting for me; however, you've yet to tell me anything about them."

"Have I?" he asked with feigned innocence. "Let's just say they're old. Extremely old. But they're waiting to give you the answers you've been searching for—all that and more."

Considering he'd placed the approximate age of his travelling companion as being in his mid-eighties, the Professor wondered exactly how old these people who were apparently waiting for him could be?

*.*.*.*.*

As they strode further into the city, Gilligan and Mary Ann began to hear the gradual increasing buzz of a thriving metropolis.

"People!" they shouted in unison, as they hurried in the direction of the noise.

"We must have entered through a rarely used gate, in a deserted section of town." Relief was clearly written on the first mate's face.

Mary Ann nodded her agreement with Gilligan's assessment. Surely a city as large as this one appeared to be had many places where people didn't often traverse, and that was why they'd yet to meet anyone.

As they rounded a corner, they came upon what appeared to be an open-air market, where people were congregated, conducting various types of commerce.

Except for the way they were dressed—colourful robes for the men and stolas glittering with jewels for the women—there seemed to be little difference between themselves and these strangers.

"Boy, are we glad to see you!" shouted Gilligan, with an ebullient smile spread across his face.

Silence spread across the square like a wave, as the populace responded with shock and awe at the newcomers' appearance.

"We-we're friends," said Mary Ann. "We don't mean you any harm."

A young boy ventured close to them, only to be snatched quickly away by what was probably his mother.

"Aemu tal narcé dan keltil fa," said a robed man with flowing white hair, as he cautiously approached them.

"I hope that means 'we're pleased to meet you'," said Gilligan nervously.

The man repeated the phrase again, seeming to expect an answer to his unknown query.

"I didn't even think that these people might not speak English," said Mary Ann, her earlier relief turning to worry.

"Mae tonda ras chondra khaltan fa?"

They both shook their heads; it was doubtful even the Professor would have been able to decipher what was being said.

The man reached into the pockets of his robe and removed something small that he placed in his hands.

"Hey, those look like those sunflower seeds that allowed us to read each other's minds," said Gilligan.

"Do you think they want us to eat them?" There was a note of caution in Mary Ann's voice.

The first mate nodded. "A bird's still a bird in whatever language you say it. Maybe we'll be able to talk _to_ them by thinking _at_ them?"

They took the proffered seeds, and began to move them towards their mouths, hoping that if that wasn't the man's intent, he'd stop them. But, he made no such gesture.

"Well, here goes nothing," said Gilligan.

*.*.*.*.*

After travelling for what felt like hours, the man led the Professor down a narrow corridor that ended in a heavy wooden door. Taking a brass key from around his neck, he fit it into the rusted lock and turned.

"You wanted to meet them. They're right inside waiting for you." He opened the door, which creaked menacingly on its hinges, and practically dragged the scholar inside.

It took a few moments for the Professor's eyes to adjust to the gloominess of the room which was dimly lit in a sanguineous colour. What was worse was the stench; it reminded him of an abattoir.

"I told you I'd bring him." This was the first time the Professor had detected a note of fear in his companion's voice.

"We've been waiting for you, Professor," said a disembodied voice.

"You've been searching for answers to a riddle, and we have those for you." came another voice that seemed to make the air tremble.

"Just ask your questions, and all will be revealed."

Between the smell and the room's colour, the Professor's head was spinning. That long walk through the maze had confused him, and suddenly he wasn't as sure of himself as he had been.

"This is all just a lucid dream," he said matter-of-factly, but didn't actually feel the self-confidence and bravado that he was trying to convey.

"No," hissed another voice, "You've gone beyond a mundane lucid dream. You've entered a realm your mind can't begin to imagine."


	6. Those Left Behind

**The Skipper stirred in his hammock,** sniffing the air for the aroma of Mary Ann's fresh coffee. The two were usually the first ones up: the Skipper to get a jump on the day's chores and Mary Ann to begin preparing breakfast for the rest of the castaways. But this morning, he didn't smell any coffee, just the delicious fragrances from the various flowers that grew around the castaways' compound.

Getting out of his hammock, and standing up, he was surprised to find Gilligan still in deep slumber.

"C'mon little buddy, time to rise and shine. We've got a full day's work ahead of us." He gently shook the first mate, and was startled that Gilligan didn't stir.

"Gilligan," he called again; this time shaking his little buddy harder, but still the first mate didn't move.

He quickly reached for Gilligan's wrist, and was relieved to find a steady, if somewhat weak, pulse. The Skipper would move Heaven and Earth for his best friend, and quickly headed from the hut to get the Professor.

*.*.*.*.*

Ginger rolled over on her cot, attempting to shield her eyes from the early morning daylight that was streaming through the window of the hut she shared with Mary Ann. It was a ritual she did every morning, but it never seemed to make much difference: the sunlight would make certain she didn't oversleep.

As she sat up in her bed, she was surprised to find her roommate still asleep: the young woman still kept farmer's hours, by being the first one up every morning. Ginger was actually glad that Mary Ann had decided to have a lie in; she deserved it, as she often did so much of the drudge work of cooking and doing the laundry for seven people, besides maintaining the crops, and looking after some of the animals the castaways had been able to domesticate.

While cooking would never be Ginger's forte, she didn't mind subbing for her best friend: a fresh fruit salad and some papaya juice was certainly in her repertoire.

 _Get some rest, Mary Ann,_ she thought, as she got dressed.

*.*.*.*.*

"Professor?" The Skipper knocked on the door of the scholar's hut, and barged in. He wasn't surprised to see the Professor slumped over his lab table fast asleep. The man had probably spent most of the night working on deciphering those texts.

He went over to him and shook him. But he, like Gilligan, didn't awaken.

The Skipper looked at the papyri that the Professor had been working on. He'd wished the scientist had left well-enough alone. Something from it must have put both men into this trance-like state.

Racing from the Professor's hut back to his own, he almost collided with Ginger, who was just coming from her own hut.

"Skipper, you look like you've seen a ghost." She could tell by the seaman's demeanour that something had upset him.

"It's Gilligan and the Professor. I can't wake them up. It's like they're in some kind of trance."

"Oh my gosh," said Ginger, the colour draining from her face. "Mary Ann didn't wake up this morning, either. I thought she was just sleeping late."

"You see if you can wake up Mary Ann, while I check on the Howells."

She nodded, and hurried back to her hut.

*.*.*.*.*

The Skipper knocked on the Howells' hut's door. He was well aware that this was a bit early for the couple to be up—usually they were the last to arrive for breakfast—but this was too important, if they were in a trance as well…

He was relieved when he heard Mr. Howell's voice, "Who could be knocking at this ungodly hour?"

"It's the Skipper, Mr. Howell. Are you and Mrs. Howell all right?"

The millionaire's voice was none-too-pleased by the disturbance, and shouted louder than he intended to, "Of course we are, Captain, why wouldn't we be?"

"Is Mrs. Howell all right, too?" His voice was tinged with fear, as he'd yet to hear her speak.

"Certainly, I'm all right, Captain," said Mrs. Howell groggily. "Whatever is the matter?"

"It's Gilligan and the Professor. I can't wake them up."

*.*.*.*.*

Ginger raced back to her hut, and tried desperately to awaken her sleeping roommate. But, as with the others, her friend seemed to be in a trance. She was relieved to see that Mary Ann's chest was rising and falling in a natural rhythm, but nothing she could do seemed able to awaken her.

If there was another witchdoctor on the island, then her three friends were in serious trouble, and only the Skipper might know of a way of reviving them.

*.*.*.*.*

With the Skipper's news, the Howells quickly dressed and headed for the compound to join the other two around the communal table.

"Captain, surely all three of them can't be in a trance at the same time?"

He turned towards Mrs. Howell. "It doesn't seem likely—even for the greatest witchdoctor ever to be able to do that—but I think it has something to do with what the Professor's been working on."

"You're saying that the Professor's been working on translating something malevolent?" asked Mr. Howell, suddenly not so enthused by his previous thoughts about a substantial market in antiquities.

"I don't know, but there's something just wrong about those artefacts. Even the Professor said they were older than the tribes who once inhabited this island."

"But why them?" Ginger was nearly in tears, remembering how her dance to awaken the Professor when he was turned into a zombie had been a total failure. "And how do we awaken them?"

The Skipper shrugged his shoulders. "It could be that Mary Ann and Gilligan are the two youngest on the island, and the Professor was working on deciphering that text. But I honestly don't know."

"Will we fall asleep, and not wake up, too?" asked Mr. Howell.

"I don't think so," began the Skipper, "with the Professor asleep, he won't be working on those texts anymore. So, whatever magic he might have accidentally performed shouldn't have any effect on us."

"At least, you hope not," said Ginger.

The Skipper nodded. "I've got some charms to ward off evil spirits in my sea chest; I think we should each carry one around with us—just to be on the safe side."

The others nodded in agreement. While none were as superstitious as the Skipper, they all remembered their experience with the witchdoctor two years earlier; it never hurt to be cautious.

"What should we do about our _sleeping beauties_ in the meantime, Captain?"

"I want to put a charm near each of them—no matter how the Professor feels about it. But I guess the best thing to do is leave them where they are: wherever they are—"

"Whatever do you mean by that, Captain?"

The big man sighed. There was no easy way to explain things, and being blunt would probably be best: "Their bodies are here with us, Mrs. Howell, but their essences—the part of them that makes them who they are—are, right now, somewhere else."


	7. Innocents Lost

**The incorporeal voices seemed to come at him from all directions at once;** they were as much a part of the room as was the blood-red lighting and the malodorous scent that assailed his nostrils.

"Your presence here at this time was foretold aeons ago." The room seemed to pulsate with power at these words.

"I don't believe in superstitious nonsense," the Professor replied, his voice sounding almost hollow compared to the unseen beings in the room with him. "Show yourselves," he demanded.

"Your primitive mind is not yet ready to behold our kind."

"For those whom the gods would destroy, they first make mad," laughed the old man. "You don't want to see 'em, sonny."

Until he had spoken, the Professor had almost forgot his travelling companion. While he didn't believe he was speaking with gods, he was certain now that the old man was indeed mad. Whether driven insane by his time spent in this Stygian place, or the beings to whom he was speaking, he wouldn't venture a guess.

"Do you know what these people look like?" he asked of his escort.

The old man didn't reply to his question directly, but attempted to skirt the matter entirely. "If _I_ do, then _you'll_ know, won't you?"

"I'm tired of yours and your friends' games. This is all just some dream-inspired mumbo-jumbo based on things my mind is recalling from the Skipper's superstitions. I'm just more involved in this dream than others I've had in the past."

One of the disembodied voices spoke, making the entire room shudder, "You attempt to hide behind your logic, but your mind is as open to us as a book. That is not _what_ you believe."

"You can't hide from _them_. They already know all about you."

 _Dreams create their own past, present and future,_ thought the Professor. "Whatever these creatures know, they've learned from me."

"You're half right, sonny. They already did learn from you."

The Professor whirled on the old man, grabbing him by the shoulders to look him squarely in the face. It was then when he noticed something vaguely familiar behind the madness revealed in those tired, old eyes.

"My god, man, you're—"

The man cut him off, "You're smarter than you look."

*.*.*.*.*

There hadn't been any choking sensation, and his stomach, which was already tied in knots, didn't seem the worse for wear. But Gilligan didn't feel like he had after the first time he ate those sunflower seeds. This time, he felt no effects. He looked over at Mary Ann, and she seemed to be having the same lack of reaction he was.

"How are you feeling, friends?" asked the man who had handed them the seeds.

"You-you speak English?" asked the petite brunette.

The man shook his head. "I do not know what this 'English' you speak of is, but these seeds allow you to speak and understand our language."

"But how?" asked Gilligan. "When I tried the seeds in the past, they let us read other people's minds."

"Perhaps a different strain of the seed, or one found in another province?" he asked. "Forgive my manners, travellers," began the man. "I am called Natavee, and you are…"

"I'm Gilligan," said the first mate, and pointing to his companion, "This is Mary Ann."

"How do you do, Mr. Natavee," she said. "Could you tell us where we are?"

"You are in Bolariis. The capital city of Lemuria."

The two castaways looked perplexed; neither recognised the city nor country name.

"But how did we get here?" asked Gilligan. "We were both asleep and dreaming—"

While Natavee's expression remained calm, he looked at the twosome in awe. "Lemuria has often welcomed travellers from other dimensions. But none that we know of from the realm of dreams."

Mary Ann and Gilligan stared at each other. "Other dimensions?" asked the first mate. "Isn't this Earth?"

"Of course," replied Natavee. "Are you from there as well?" The man's demeanour was so calm that they thought he wouldn't have been shocked if they said they were from Mars.

Gilligan had started to say something, but his mouth opened and closed like a fish. This whole being wide-awake, yet dreaming, confused him, and he didn't know what question to ask next; so many were going through his head.

Mary Ann saw her friend's confusion, and quickly answered, "Yes. But where we're from doesn't look anything like this." She pointed at the exquisite architecture that surrounded them. "And we've never heard of Lemuria before."

"Now, _that_ is surprising," began Natavee. "our people have circumnavigated the globe and been in contact with many different cultures. Perhaps yours was not among them?"

 _But how could you miss the United States?_ thought Gilligan, more confused than ever.

*.*.*.*.*

The Professor was horrified by what was revealed in the countenance of the old man. That doddering fool couldn't be who he would become in fifty or sixty years. It wasn't possible.

"How can he be me?" The scholar's voice practically caught in his throat.

"A conjurer's trick, nothing more," was the reply he received. "Time is irrelevant in this space."

 _And on the island,_ he thought.

His half-senile older-self smiled at him, "You've nearly got it," he said, as though able to read his younger self's mind. "Even death itself can die—under the right circumstances, of course."

"Your puny island has its part to play, too" echoed one of the voices.

"It served its purpose once; it will finally do so again."

"Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn." The air trembled at those words.

*.*.*.*.*

Gilligan and Mary Ann followed Natavee into the heart of the city, to the accompanying stares of many of the citizenry.

Compared to the way they were dressed—she still in the Professor's nightshirt and bare feet, and Gilligan in his denim trousers, red shirt and sneakers—the people of Bolariis must have thought they were derelicts. But Natavee seemed not to notice her own discomfort, as he chattered on helpfully explaining the history and culture of Lemuria. Mary Ann wished the Professor were here—he would have been spellbound by the tale, and no doubt understood much of what the Lemurian was explaining—but he, like the other castaways, was no doubt still asleep on their island home.

"Where are we going?" asked Gilligan, quickly asking his question when Natavee paused briefly to take a breath.

"Friend Gilligan, we are headed to the oracle. They would be far better than I in explaining how you came to be here, and how to return you to your homeland."

This was the first thing the man had said that caught the two travellers' interest.

"Can they really help us return home?" asked Mary Ann.

"They are the wisest in all of Lemuria. One of them will certainly be able to provide you with the answers you're seeking."

*.*.*.*.*

While the Professor didn't understand the sentence that was just uttered, he did recognise two of the words: _Cthulhu_ and _R'lyeh._ There was a university in Arkham, Massachusetts that dealt with the global, sociological implications of the phenomena of the occult and paranormal—neither field was something that held the Professor's interest, but he was aware of that course of study. Cthulhu was believed to be some ancient deity, worshiped by primitive man, and R'lyeh was the city where it supposedly dwelt. That was as far as his familiarity went.

_Did these beings actually believe they could somehow raise a non-existent being from a non-existent city?_

"It is good that you are an unbeliever, Roy Hinkley, Jr.," said one voice.

While another hissed, "It makes things so much easier this way."


End file.
